Doctor's orders
by Yesilian
Summary: When Sherlock has an accident and successfully cows his doctor into letting him go, it takes John to make sure he gets the care the good doctor deems necessary. / A tiny, little one-shot.


Sherlock sat on the examination table and looked miserable for all the world even though John knew it wasn't for pain, but for being held there and being fussed over. He felt no sympathy for his flatmate who had once more got himself into trouble.

A doctor, a young man in his mid to late twenties, was still examining Sherlock and John didn't want to interrupt him. Dealing with the madman was straining enough without the distraction of a furious flatmate screaming at him. So John merely crossed his arms in front of his chest and proceeded to stare down Sherlock who at least had the decency to look a little sorry, if not for very long. He regained his composure soon enough.

"How did you know I was here?" he bristled, hoping a rough tone of voice might distract John from the fact that he had left the flat when actually he was supposed to tidy up and had then gotten into an accident, resulting in bandages around his left wrist and ankle and a couple of nasty bruises and superficial cuts on his face.

"What do you think, genius, I'm your emergency contact!" John said unimpressed. If anything he crossed his arms more tightly.

"I didn't tell them to call you," Sherlock played indignant.

"Well, then someone has more sense than you," John gave back as good as he got. "Because somebody has to make sure you get home in one piece."

"I can take care of that myself," again, the decency to say it quietly but not quietly enough for John to overhear.

"Obviously, because you're walking, talking proof of that," he snapped. "Oh no wait, can you walk with that ankle?" Sherlock glared at him but John refused to be affected by the stare. Instead he turned his attention to the doctor who all while they were talking hadn't looked up from his hands once. It was apparent that Sherlock had succeeded in intimidating him before John had arrived.

"How is he?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"I'm right here. You don't need to talk as if I weren't," he interposed. John paid him no attention. The young doctor glanced at Sherlock as if to ask for permission to talk.

"Oh for God's sake, just tell him," the detective snapped and the doctor cleared his throat.

"Sprained ankle and wrist where Mr Holmes fell. Abrasions on his face and torso. A mild concussion." This attracted John's attention. His head snapped up.

"Concussion?" he asked walking over. The young doctor leaned out of his way when John took Sherlock's head into his hands and turned it in the direction of the light to watch his pupils constrict. It was slow and uneven.

"Follow my finger," he instructed and slowly waved his index finger from left to right, up and down. The movement of Sherlock's eyes troubled him.

"Did you order a CT?" he asked the doctor who shook his head, surprise at John's behaviour written all over his face.

"No. His symptoms weren't severe enough and I thought it wasn't necessary." He sounded unsure and as if he was maybe questioning his call now under scrutiny. John looked at Sherlock's face.

"Do you remember the accident?" he asked sounding serious.

"Oh, was that question directed at me? Am I part of the conversation again?" he said condescending.

"Do you want to spend the night? Because if you don't behave I will leave you here," John warned. Sherlock heaved a theatrical sigh and deigned to answer.

"Not at first but it came back within five minutes. I felt nauseated, but was not sick. My head is killing me and my side hurts, but otherwise I'm fine." John searched his face for symptoms he was omitting.

"Do you remember how you've got here?" he asked making sure he had no trouble with his memories.

"Yes, ambulance. Stupid pedestrian insisted on it," Sherlock snarled.

"That wasn't stupid and is there anything you're not telling me?" John asked when after further study of his flatmate's appearance he found only Sherlock's suspiciously innocent eyes.

"Nothing," he ascertained. John didn't buy it.

"Make a CT scan," he said turning back to the doctor and letting go of Sherlock's face at last and taking his wrist instead as if to examine it but then he didn't. He just held Sherlock's hand in both his.

"I don't need a scan," Sherlock said but he was once again ignored by John. The doctor was unsure who to listen to. John sighed. In the end it was his call and Sherlock had obviously done a great job of intimidating him.

"Did he tell you that it is his _second _concussion this year? And his seventh in the five years I've known him, and that's taking into account the two years when he faked his death and I had no idea what he was up to?" The young doctor's eyes widened at that and he stared at Sherlock as if seeking for confirmation while Sherlock uttered, "Oh for God's sake, not this again," under his breath.

"Now, will you take him to the CT?" John ended pleasantly.

"Mr Holmes, under those circumstances," the doctor started hesitantly. Yet Sherlock interrupted, crossing his arms and looking funny doing it with John's hand still in his as he forgot to let go of it first. John snatched it back, tilting his head to the side to hide his grin.

"What if I refused?" Sherlock challenged and glared the poor doctor down who seemed to shrink as John looked on.

"I would really recommend it," he tried in a voice as small as he was. John felt pity for him. It wasn't that the man was spineless; greater men than him had been reduced to less by Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," John tried to reason but Sherlock was being stubborn now.

"No. I feel well and I want to go home," he even got up from the table and took his coat to emphasise his words. John shoved him back down. Truth was, when it came to being stubborn Sherlock couldn't hold a candle to John. It was his turn to glare.

"You either do this willingly or I call Mycroft," he said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You wouldn't," but he wasn't too sure of it. John gave him a moment to reconsider his options. When Sherlock didn't back down, John spoke to the doctor.

"Mr Holmes' brother occupies an important position in the government and would prefer if you treated him to the best of your conscience even if he is reluctant. I can assure you that every test you deem necessary will be consented to."

"It is a minor position!" Sherlock interjected but the doctor already looked wary.

"He's lying. Why else would he be in a private exam room and not in one of the public ones? Why do you think someone immediately called me, his live-in doctor, when he got admitted even though he didn't authorise it? Or why he was treated before all the other people in the waiting room when his injuries were not that serious?" John didn't know about the last one but took an educated guess based on all of their prior trips to the hospital. It seemed he was right in his assumption. The doctor gaped and Sherlock rolled his eyes, again, although it must have hurt his head to do so.

"Now, I ask again: Will you agree to the scan?" he said turning his head to Sherlock. As if he had any say in it.

"Yes," he said with distaste.

"I'll order the scan," the doctor practically ran from the room, glad to be gone. John briefly wondered what Sherlock had said to him and deciding he didn't care this time, turned his body fully to him and took his coat from his hands. He smiled.

"I'm glad you saw reason," he said pleasantly. Then he cupped Sherlock's face in his palm and leaned in to press a simple kiss to his lips. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut with surprise and his mouth opened minutely to let John's tongue slide over his bottom lip once. When he opened his eyes again John was studying his face with gentle worry.

"Are you really okay?" he asked much quieter than he had been earlier. All Sherlock could do was nod.

"Good," John smiled. He let his hand fall from Sherlock's face just as the door to the room opened again. Discreetly he stepped out of the vee of Sherlock's legs.

"We're ready for you, Mr Holmes," an unknown nurse said.

"That was fast," John muttered, smirking, as they, slowly as Sherlock was limping, made their way to follow her.

"You know I hate you for this, right?" Sherlock mumbled over his shoulder.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it if I were you," John had a devilish grin on his face. "You'll look back to now fondly when you find out what I'll do to you for picking up smoking again." Sherlock turned white and missed a step. It had only been one cigarette a day and damn John for being able to taste it on his lips.


End file.
